


first kiss

by largoindminor



Series: wincest love week 2015 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>series of first kisses for sam and dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	first kiss

**Author's Note:**

> wincest love week day 1

The first time Dean kisses Sam he’s four years old. Sam’s nothing but a bundle of pink in his mother’s arms, wrapped up in threadbare hospital issue blankets. He’s painstakingly careful, months of warnings and reminders echo in his head- _babies are fragile, so you’ll have to be careful with him_ and _he’ll be so small, so you have to be gentle_ and his favorite _you’_ _ll be_ _the big brother, that’s a very important job, like a superhero._ It’s just a soft brush of lips over already chubby cheeks, and Dean doesn’t even remember it, not really, just remembers _remembering_ it.

There’s lots of kisses after that. Silly raspberry kisses, slobbery creamed-peas tinged kisses, wipe away the tears and booboos kisses. Good night kisses and good morning kisses and no-there’s-no-scary-boogey-man-under-your-bed-I-already-checked kisses. As the years pass, they become less frequent, less and less needed, and one day when Dean’s twelve or thirteen he realizes, with the too familiar sting of nostalgia that he feels every time a piece of their childhoods dies, that he can’t remember the last one.

~

The first time someone else kisses Sam, well, someone other than family, Dean’s nineteen and Sam tells him about it with all the usual excitement of a hormonal fifteen year old boy. He’s light on some of the details like her name, or where she’s from, or if Sam’s going to see her again. Goes heavy on them where it counts, though, how soft her lips were, how wet, the taste her strawberry lipsmackers and stale stick of juicyfruit. Dean feels pride deep in his chest, mixed with something else, something dark in the pit of his belly. It could almost be jealousy. He brushes it aside before it can fully form, into the pile of emotions once marked just “sad”, then later “stinging nostalgia”, and finally, “Sam growing up”.

~

Dean realizes he’s in love at twenty-one. It’s not a flash bang of enlightenment or a sudden vertigo inducing realization. It’s slow and inevitable, like placing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle down and finally seeing the finished product, sans imagination to fill in what’s missing. Sam walks through the motel door with his backpack slung over his right shoulder, just like he has a million times before, shaggy hair flopping in front of his eyes, delicate wrists peaking out of Dean’s too-small hand-me-down flannel, dimples carving out their home in youthful, sun tanned cheeks. Dean looks up and all at once the final piece slots into place. _Oh._ It’s quiet and sweet and he can’t help the blush that tinges the tips of his ears as goes about his day and thinks, _how did I not know until now?_

Dean’s surprisingly all right with this small revelation, maybe his subconscious eased him into it for this reason, he feels only a hint of guilt, a sliver of envy towards every girl or boy Sam will love throughout his life. But mostly he just feels thankful for the miracle that is Sam, and the miracle that his own battered heart can still feel such a thing.

~

Dean’s twenty-two when Sam’s nervous “Can I talk to you?” turns his entire world up-side-down. It’s already dark, and they walk a ways away from the motel of the week, to a small park that would be easy to mistake for a highway median strip if not for a few trees and park bench or two. He listens patiently, calmly, to the words that he’d dreaded hearing more than any others. It’s not exact, it’s _I’ve always wanted this_ and _this isn’t good-bye_ and _I just can’t stay in this li_ _f_ _e_ but it all translates to _I’m leaving you_ and to Dean that feels a little like a knife slice through the belly. And he would know.

Sam apologizes, waits, blinks, and Dean realizes it’s probably been too long since he’s said anything. He kind of wants to scream, or run away, or punch something really hard like a brick wall or his own face, but instead he sucks in a breath and forces a smile.

“It’s. Good, Sam. I’m. Happy for you. You- you should go. You’ll be. Happier there.” God, he sounds like an idiot.

Sam’s averted eyes well with tears as he takes a deep breath and continues, “I gotta leave tomorrow. I’m sorry I waited to tell you. It’s just, dad, and-”

“S'ok.” Dean forces himself to look Sam dead in the eye, tries to make that one word sound reassuring as possible because he’s not sure he can talk any more after that.

“Just, there’s one thing. One more thing, I gotta know, before.” Sam’s gnawing at his bottom lip, and he looks up at Dean through tear-beaded lashes with something like desperation on his face.

~

Sam’s eighteen the first time he kisses Dean. _Really_ kisses him. It happens in slow motion and Dean thinks for a second that his tear blurred vision is distorting the movements around him, because why would Sam be leaning closer, closer, so close he can see the flecks of copper and gold in Sam’s hazel eyes.

It’s soft, so soft, just like that first kiss, and over before it begins, Sam springs back as though burnt from the touch, trembling hand raises to touch his own lips, a breathy apology whispered through the pads of his fingertips.

It should be shocking, earth shattering, but again, it’s gradual, almost tender, as the piece slips into place. _Oh. Of course._ There’s a weight that lifts from Dean’s shoulders in that moment, one he hadn’t realized was there, one built with bricks of duty and honor and held together with mortar of thick self denial. Dean reaches for him, those time muffled words of _fragile_ and _gentle_ and _very important_ now clear again in his mind as his hand curls around the back of Sam’s neck, tangles in the still shaggy hair, and applies the slightest bit of pressure. _Sam_ the one word he’s still able to comprehend, so he says it again, _Sam,_ and presses their lips together.

Sam’s mouth opens up for him with a quivering huff, hands tentatively reach around to clasp at the small of Dean’s back, and Dean’s never kissed like this, never _been_ kissed like this, like bodies and minds and souls are kissing. The stubbly brush of Sam’s upper lips tastes of salvation and home and miracles, most of all miracles, and he wants nothing more than for that sweet burn to last forever.

~

Sam still has to go, he says, and Dean knows it, too, knows whatever bond knit them together would wither from resentment and die brown and brittle should Sam stay. That knowledge makes it easier to let go, or so he tells himself as he drives Sam to the bus station the next day. Dean knows both Sam and dad already regret the fight that just happened, repeats in his head how _it’s for the best_ , how i _t’s not forever_ , how _I can’t go, too, Sam, dad needs me_ until he almost believes it all.

Dean never thought he’d get second first kiss with Sam, never thought he’d know the taste of their mouths mingled together or the feel of Sam’s teeth biting lightly at his lower lip. He rubs his hand over that lip as the bus pulls away, imagines he can still feel the playful nip. Sam belongs to the world now, to himself and Stanford and the world, but Dean made a promise, one that was true long before he ever voiced it. He belongs to Sam.


End file.
